


The Game

by AndreaLyn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To pass the boring winter months, they embark on a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

Tristan: 0   
Galahad: 0   
Gawain: 0  
  
“A gamble?”  
  
“Challenge.”  
  
“Tristan, have you gone mad?”  
  
“No, wait. Let’s hear him out.”  
  
“Gawain! Not you as well!”  
  
“Listen, Galahad. You know that life is the most tedious during the colder months. Why not give ourselves some amusement?”  
  
“Arthur would kill us!”  
  
“Shall we shake on it?”  
  
“No. No, we won’t shake on it, we won’t in any…Gawain! No! Don’t!…That’s not fair! You can’t just take my hand and force me to…damn it! Fine! At least I have the pleasure of knowing that I’ll beat you both.”  
  
*  
  
Tristan: 1  
Galahad: 0  
Gawain: 1  
  
They quickly found that working together would earn them more points than it would individually. After all, it took at  _least_  two to actually bind Galahad’s limbs and not be injured. Gawain’s leather straps had done the tying and Tristan’s hands had checked his knots – perfect in every loop, in every tie, in every form – both of them tuning out the noisy cries. They’d grinned and left, brushing off their dirtied hands on their clothes and ignoring the protests as they went.  
  
Galahad frowned, squirming as best he could. His hands were pressed hard to the stands in the stables, sure to give him splinters that would dig deep and cause him great pain. His legs were spread just suggestively so, and the  _bastards_  had  _put_  him in the  _stables_.   
  
Arthur had been the first to find him.  
  
Galahad sighed, closing his eyes and feeling the burn of the rope against his wrists and his ankles, and the burn of embarrassment flushing his cheeks. His whole body burned with the humiliation and he’d immediately known that reciprocation was necessary. “Don’t mind me,” he muttered. For his part, Arthur merely grabbed his saddle, his horse, and left.   
  
*  
  
Tristan: 5  
Galahad: 2  
Gawain: 3  
  
It had been Galahad’s idea when he realized just how heavy a sleeper Gawain could be – the sound of his snores drowning out any noise around them, and the heaviest clatters and footfalls lost to the deep sleep Gawain could fall into. Convincing Tristan had been a harder task, but not impossible in the end when Galahad had simply reminded him of the current tally.   
  
Tristan had scouted out the blue dye that Woads use and Galahad had smiled innocently even as they crept into Gawain’s room, Tristan ever watchful of anyone coming to interrupt Galahad as he smeared his fingers with paint and coated Gawain’s face in a layer of endless blue as far as the eye can see.   
  
With his finger then, he spelt out ‘HIT ME’ on Gawain’s forehead and left a small piece of parchment with the current tally on it before Galahad and Tristan escaped, silent smiles adorning their faces as they made it to a haven, and only there did Tristan give Galahad a congratulatory clap on the back.   
  
*  
  
Tristan: 8  
Galahad: 5  
Gawain: 5  
  
She fluttered Her wings and cried out loudly when the offending hands cradled Her. “Shh,” the man whispered to Her. It’s not Her master, but this man’s hands were just as soft and just as gentle. He whispered soft words to Her as they walked down the halls. “I promise it’s not because I dislike you,” he whispered. She knew this one. He wore the silly skirt all the time like a woman, and Her master had often talked to Her about him and his legs. She didn’t see what the fuss is over. “You’re a lovely bird,” the man was still talking. “But I need to best Tristan.”  
  
He quickly dressed Her in some ridiculous piece of clothing and set Her back down on Her perch with a smile and a pat on Her head. She cried out loudly and he seemed to roll his eyes. “Now, be a good bird,” he advised as he closed the door.   
  
Hours later, Her master returned and took the little pieces of clothing off of Her. He stroked Her head and make small sounds of disgust. “I’ll kill him.”  
  
She wanted to tell him that really, She didn’t mind. It was just a bit of the baby’s clothing really, and She had a soft spot for the one with the bare legs. He always fed Her treats, after all.   
  
*  
  
Tristan: 9  
Galahad: 8  
Gawain: 6  
  
It was cold in Britain and it was colder when you’ve no clothes to speak of. For the first time ever, Tristan may have underestimated Galahad. Tristan had a feeling that it might have been as a result of the quiet joke Tristan had made about Galahad and his tunics. He’d woken to a surprisingly empty room, not to mention that his own clothes had been stripped off his body in his sleep.  
  
“The boy got good,” Tristan murmured under his breath in cold anger, shivering slightly as he wrapped himself in his blankets and made his way to Galahad’s quarters, nodding to fellow Knights as he passed them, but never giving more than a quick word of greeting.   
  
He pushed his way into the room to find all his clothes folded and tied up to various pieces of furniture with rough rope. Galahad sat atop one of the piles with a distinctly smug grin.  
  
“Say please,” Galahad demanded eagerly.  
  
Tristan glared.  
  
*  
  
Tristan: 10  
Galahad: 10  
Gawain: 8  
  
Gawain was tired of trailing in last place and if truth were told, he was beginning to tire of their little game. He’d been in the tavern for a late drink when Galahad had wandered by, and Gawain had opened his mouth to speak, to tell him, ‘it’s distracting us from our duty and it’s beginning to be stupid.’   
  
Gawain never got to say those words.  
  
Galahad had stopped and Gawain saw the moon reflecting ethereally off of Galahad’s cheekbones, casting him in an angelic sort of light. Gawain had risen to his feet almost unconsciously and moved to brush his thumb across Galahad’s cheek to see just how brightly the moon was shining and if it was cool to the touch.  
  
Galahad tilted his head, caught Gawain’s gaze.   
  
And then he kissed Gawain furiously, lips and tongues and teeth meeting in a clumsy affair as Galahad curled his tongue around Gawain’s, and tugged on Gawain’s lower lip enough to make him bleed. Then Galahad pulled away and left without a word, and it was as though he’d never been there in the first place.   
  
*  
  
Soon, the score became insignificant, though the jests and the tricks continued on a new, higher level. Galahad wandered about with a dreamy and calculating countenance, as though he’d discovered a fountain of pleasure and was determining how he could find it again while Gawain paced the garrison in constant silence.   
  
Tristan was curious.   
  
He sneaked and he lurked and one day in the stables, he found Gawain pinning down Galahad with his hips and his mouth. Tristan slipped into the shadows, wondering when the game had ascended to this new level. He became the darkness and his eyes roved over this new sight, slipping into it and wanting to have a part of it. He narrowed his eyes as a bolt of desire shot through him as Galahad’s back arched, Gawain’s palm pressed into Galahad’s groin.   
  
He would have his turn.   
  
*  
  
“Mpfhf! Hel…!”  
  
“Shut  _up_ ,” Galahad hissed, blindfold knotted and secure over Gawain’s eyes. “Shut up. Shut  _up_ , do you want the entire garrison to become an audience?” He slammed the door shut with his foot and led Gawain to the bed, sitting him down with the help of both his hands. Galahad’s hands trailed down Gawain’s hips before he stepped back.  
  
Gawain looked around blindly, unsure as to what he was really looking for. Galahad grinned and climbed onto the cot, leaning in to whisper into Gawain’s ear, but keeping enough distance between them that no physical contact ever came about. Galahad licked his lower lip, breath wafting over the small hairs curling about Gawain’s earlobe. Gawain shivered slightly, turning his head towards where Galahad was kneeling on the cot, hands groping, but receiving nothing but the beddings. Galahad bit down on his lip and grabbed Gawain’s hands in his own, shifting slightly closer, still keeping precious inches between them.   
  
“I may or may not be completely naked,” Galahad whispered. “Why don’t you find out?”  
  
*  
  
Tristan spent his time productively – no wasted time, he said. He’d scouted on trips with his girl and spent time in the shadows and listened to words – the cadence of Galahad’s voice, the timbre of Gawain’s, the smooth easy mix of their voices together in pleasure – and watched them at work and at play. He’d calculated everything perfectly, and now he was lurking in the kitchen. He leaned against the wood of the table, not bothering to light anything but the one lamp, spending his time instead carefully lifting item by item off the table and moving it to another place.   
  
Soon enough and sure enough, Galahad came in the kitchen with Gawain’s hand wrapped around his waist. They laughed in jumbled harmony and smiled with secret knowledge and Tristan merely raised his eyebrows as they entered and stopped in their walk.   
  
“Now, who’s winning?” he asked evenly, tugging Galahad forward by the leather of his belt and spinning him until his back was pressed hard against the table. Tristan leaned in, tilting his head and breathing over Galahad’s neck. “That’s going to leave a bruise,” Tristan grinned, glancing over his shoulder to ensure Gawain wasn’t going to tackle him down.   
  
“He won’t care,” Gawain said evenly, closing the door and hopping on top of another table, leaning forward, eyes on Galahad and occasionally slipping to Tristan. “Go ‘head, take it off. See my marks,” Gawain grinned.   
  
Tristan lifted the tunic off effortlessly and spun Galahad with his hands, noting the bruises of fingers, a cut of the knife here and there, and down on his lower back, the carved letter ‘G’. Tristan turned, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“It’s not a game anymore, is it?” he asked, unsheathing his own knife and tapping Galahad on the hip with the cold steel of the blunt side of the blade. Galahad had been strangely quiet the entire time, and Tristan was beginning to wonder where his mind was. Tristan raised an eyebrow as he watched Galahad slip his hand down and wrap his hand around Tristan’s hips, bringing him close and then pushing his hips up against Tristan. Tristan smirked. “Not a game, pup?”  
  
Galahad tilted his head, nipping on Tristan’s earlobe, his eyes on Gawain. “Touch him again, and I’ll not only steal your clothes, I’ll burn them too. He’s  _mine_.”  
  
Tristan laughed, delighted. “Look at you!” he marveled. “Possessive and violent and marked.”  
  
Galahad grinned; pushing Tristan away with a playful shove and to the ground, straddling him so tightly that Tristan could feel his pulse pounding away. Gawain shifted until he was leaning forward, always watching – and always taking lessons from Tristan on how to watch with skill.  
  
Galahad kissed him hard, his mouth slipping down and biting hard at Tristan’s neck. “Cede this game of following us and watching,” Galahad whispered, “and I’ll give you all my points. Gawain’s too. You’ll win.”  
  
“How do you know I’ve been watching?”  
  
“Your hawk squawks,” Gawain pointed out slowly, arching one eyebrow.   
  
“Well?” Galahad grinned, pushing his palm hard against Tristan’s crotch, licking slowly up Tristan’s neck and nibbling on his earlobe, his eyes never leaving Gawain’s face. “What do you say?”  
  
*  
  
“So, who won?” Lancelot asked, some years later as Tristan recounted the story, ale in hand and gaze flitting over to where Galahad and Gawain were throwing knives. Tristan finished off his drink and looked to Lancelot, licking the foam off his lower lip as he shrugged. Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Come, there has to be a winner.”  
  
“There was,” Tristan shrugged.   
  
“And?”  
  
Tristan smirked as a wench brought another cup of ale his way. He pinched her stomach and placed a kiss on her hip as he took the cup and indulged in the first few sips, licking his lower lip and gazing back at Gawain and Galahad, who were now brushing each other’s clothes off and gazing at each other happily.   
  
“By the numbers, it was me,” Tristan remarked. “Looking at them? They won.”  
  
“Well, it was three years ago,” Lancelot remarked, bored. “Looks like they’ve grown up after all,” he said evenly, even as a rush of wind passed by them, caused by Galahad’s sprinting for the exit.  
  
“Galahad!” Gawain shouted. “That’s my knife! You little bastard, give it  _back_!” he growled, taking off after him.  
  
Tristan and Lancelot exchanged a look with unspoken words that spoke on far too many levels they both comprehended. Instead, Lancelot merely sighed and ordered another round.


End file.
